


pastry chef attempts to steal phil's heart

by sierraadeux



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: And other antics, Baker Dan, Baking, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Modern Royalty, Prince Phil, Strangers to Friends, but mostly a lot of baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierraadeux/pseuds/sierraadeux
Summary: If anyone asks, Prince Philip's sneaky morning journeys down to the royal pastry kitchen are for nothing more than the perfect cup of coffee.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 88
Kudos: 266
Collections: Phandom Reverse Bang 2020





	pastry chef attempts to steal phil's heart

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for this year's reverse bang based on [gib's ](https://asensical.tumblr.com/)absolutely kick ass prompt and art that they so kindly let me let me run around with in circles and all different odd shapes until we ended up here with this!!! Go [give them a follow](https://www.instagram.com/gabbledygook/) and i'll link this story's art when it's posted!! A big big thanks to [ben](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtaThought) for fixing my mistakes and putting up with my absolute irrational hate for semicolons as well!!!!

Phil has never been a morning person, exceptionally grumbly and mostly dead to the world until a second cup of coffee has been placed in his hands. This is a well known fact around the palace, it’s to be expected that Phil will be no more than two minutes early to any morning duties — though it’s typically more like five minutes late. 

So heads definitely turn as Phil groggily makes his journey across the palace, the rising sun just barely shining through large ornate windows. Thankfully, he’s mostly left alone, only a handful of courteous bows and the occasional ‘ _Good Morning Philip’_ requiring his attention. 

It’s quiet in the mornings, surprisingly so for the amount of people that are typically bustling around, and Phil appreciates it. For the quiet, but also for the opportunity to go as he pleases without being interrogated as to why. The soft scuffing of his slippers echo through the stairway as he shuffles down the steps, following the hint of brewing coffee and rising pastries in the air until it’s all that fills his nose. 

It’s not like he’s being sneaky, he just… doesn’t want this to be made into a _whole thing._

Phil walks right past the main kitchen doors, ducking down a side corridor and pushing open the smaller second entrance that opens to the much quieter back section of the kitchens — the one void of the intimidatingly large amount of warming stoves and ovens and the dozen or so chefs all getting their mises en place. 

The one that wafts sweet instead of savory. 

At any given moment, the pastry kitchen holds no more than two people — three if you count the new development of Phil’s early morning visits. Though even then, there seems to never be more than two. There’s an entirely different feel to it than the main kitchens, two ovens instead of twenty and the decibel level is never higher than the whirring of a stand mixer or the soft concentrated humming of the pâtissier. 

That’s what fills the room now as Phil steps through the door, a low, unrecognizable tune as Daniel leans over the island in the center of the room in a comical way — his tall frame brought down to eye level with the cakes he’s meticulously frosting. Large hands squeezing at a pastry bag filled to the brim with royal blue icing. Effortless roses leaving the tip with nothing more than a flick of the wrist. 

As Phil watches the repetitive motion, silent in the doorway, he tells himself that’s the reasoning for his newfound early morning wake up calls. The calm of the small back kitchen, the peace in watching someone quietly work as his brain wakes up for the day. It’s nice to just soak up that calm, especially with the weight of the world — or more literally, the country — causing an ache at his shoulders. 

It has nothing to do with the pastry chef himself, nothing at all. The fact that Phil’s morning visits only began after the palace’s former pâtissière took on a new apprentice – one with broad shoulders and _incredibly soft looking_ brown curly hair – is simply a coincidence. 

The increase in his visits since that aforementioned head chef retired, leaving Dan in her place? 

Also a coincidence. 

Nothing more than that. 

Well, _maybe_ a little bit more. It isn’t often that someone even remotely near Phil’s age is milling about the palace, and he doesn’t have much time for anything outside of his rapidly increasing royal duties, so the chance at something — _anything —_ that could result in an actual friendship is a chance Phil doesn’t want to pass up. 

Even if it’s not necessarily smiled upon. Phil doesn’t care, not enough really. If he did he would be _far_ sneakier than he already is, or he simply wouldn’t join Dan most mornings at all. And it’s not like it’s anything more than a casual, professional friendship — just someone who isn’t twenty years older than him to exchange relatable morning grumbles and a few laughs. So it’s fine, really. 

That’s what Phil tells himself, at least. Because he’s absolutely not finding himself increasingly crushing on the young pastry chef. Absolutely not. 

Dan looks up from his work, the concentration in his brow smoothing and a bright smile pulling across his face as he notices Phil in the doorway. 

“Morning Phil,” he says, swiping a stray curl up off his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smudged trail of blue frosting in its wake. A dimple pokes into the side of his cheek with his widening smile as Phil makes his way across the small kitchen. 

Okay, maybe a little. 

But it’s nothing more than a hint of a crush. Just a dash dripped into his chest, sweetening every interaction up at the edges like the few drops of vanilla Dan sneaks into Phil’s morning coffees. 

Phil leans against the other side of the kitchen island, grumbling something that could resemble a good morning in response while Dan puts down his pastry bag and wipes his hands on his black apron. After a few moments of comfortable quiet, nothing more than some soft clanging metal and a coffee machine whirring to life, a steaming mug is slid across the counter and into Phil’s sleepy hands. 

“Thank you,” Phil says earnestly, after half the cup of coffee is poured directly down his throat. Dan makes a pretty perfect cup of coffee, always just the right amount of sweet and never scalding hot — Phil thinks that’s a good enough excuse if his morning escapades to the pastry kitchen are ever questioned. 

Dan makes a good cup of coffee. Simple as that. 

Dan picks his piping bag up again, getting back to work as Phil watches him from over the rim of his coffee mug. 

“You know, you could always have that brought up to you,” Dan says as he spins the cake stand, leaning back down to bloom more flowers to the side of the cake. 

“Not the same,” Phil hums. 

Dan quirks a brow, Phil can’t help but snort at the streak of blue icing just above it.

“I’d still make it.” 

“But then I wouldn’t have a reason to come down here to see you.” 

Dan stops his movements, looking up over the cake at Phil. He’s got a soft smile on his face. Phil likes to think it doesn’t do anything to his heart. 

“What?” Phil tries, and fails, to hold back his own smile. He shrugs. “It’s a decent walk, good exercise.” 

“Sure it is,” Dan rolls his eyes. 

“Plus, that wouldn’t be as efficient,” Phil says as he slides his empty mug back across the counter, Dan only narrowly stopping it from flying right off the edge with a quick hand. “I need my second cup.”

“Please,” Phil adds, once Dan’s turned around and starting the coffee machine up again. 

“So good with your manners,” Dan snorts as he hands Phil another steaming mug. 

“Shut up,” Phil quips back. 

It’s not said as an order or out of anger — in fact, Phil doesn’t think his tone could possibly be any more fond. 

They can be like that, Phil’s realized. Dan treats him like a person first, prince second. He listened when Phil told him to just call him Phil, instead of Philip or, _god forbid,_ ‘Your Highness.’ Dan insists Phil calls him Dan, and he doesn’t startle to attention or bow when Phil enters a room when they’re alone. That’s something Phil doesn’t get much of these days, constantly stifled by rules and regulations and people treating him like he’s, well… royalty. 

Dan makes him feel normal. He likes feeling normal for once — if only for fleeting stolen moments in the quiet of daybreak. He’ll take whatever he can get, especially when it’s with Dan. 

But all good things must come to an end, and Phil is ushered out of the pastry kitchen by the ticking clock and the sun rapidly rising in the sky with a ‘ _see you’_ and a freshly iced, warm apple tart wrapped in a cloth napkin from Dan. 

There’s more of a bustle now, people going about their various jobs in full swing, and Phil makes his way back up to his wing with haste — not necessarily loving the looks his tartan pajama pants and disheveled bed hair gets. 

His mum once said there’s nothing royal about bunny slippers. Phil would have to disagree. 

Regardless of his feelings though, he kicks them off as he walks into his closet, trading them for two brightly colored mismatched socks that go mostly unseen with his nice shoes and crisp trousers. The switch signifying the _real_ start of his day – reality instead of pastry-driven fantasies. 

***

Besides the occasional tip-toe in the wee hours to retrieve a box of cereal to bring back to his room, Phil never made a habit of going down to the kitchens. 

Not before Dan at least. Honestly, Phil wouldn’t be able to tell you the name of the previous pastry chef even if his life depended on it, and he doesn’t quite care to dissect what that says about him. 

He was in the middle of a meeting — just like he always is nowadays — when he first laid eyes on Dan. 

A prime minister of some country — one he can’t quite put his finger on as he looks back on it now — had been droning on about some archaic treaty that Phil didn't have much of a reason to care about when the large, ornate meeting hall doors had swung open. 

With the way he silently slid in and out, head down as he placed the tray of immaculate pastries in the center of the long table, he didn’t really call for second glances. But that didn’t stop Phil, taking glances in seconds and thirds. 

Granted, Phil doesn’t recognize a lot of people that work in the palace, but he could at least make the distinction that he wasn’t one of the usual greying with experience, older chefs that Phil had been accustomed to seeing. So the tall frame, flashes of a youthful face, and the dark, flour-covered apron caught his eye. 

Enough so that he leaned over to his aide after the meeting ended, an inconspicuous inquiry as to who that new staff member was leading him across the palace and down to the side entrance of the kitchen one early morning a few days later. 

It was awkward at first. Phil once again asking himself why he even bothered with trying to make friends or otherwise seek out the feeling of normalcy, what with Dan gasping upon looking up and seeing Phil in the doorway. 

“Shit sorry,” Dan had rushed out, looking at Phil with wide eyes for a moment before remembering to dip his head. “Fuck- sorry, oh my god this is a train-wreck. Prince Philip, _sir_. What can I do for you, Your Hi-” 

Phil held up a hand, causing Dan’s words to die in his throat, putting them both out of their misery. He cursed the fact that this was somehow a reaction people had to him — _Phil,_ he’s really nothing special. And instead of turning on his heel and running, he tried to flash the petrified pastry chef the least intimidating smile he could muster. 

Phil doesn’t think any of his expressions are intimidating, in fact, he’d say the smiles in the reflection of his bedroom mirror are more goofy than commanding. He doesn’t have an intimidating bone in his body. But sometimes — most of the time — the idea of Phil, or more so his title than anything else, trumps his actual personality. He can’t blame people for that, age long traditions and stereotypes don’t disappear overnight. In fact, his family would quite like them not to. Etiquette classes, publicity training, and all things _you must act like this and not that_ forced upon him from an age he can barely remember. 

So it’s really something he shouldn’t actively fight against. But it would be nice to have a friend. 

“ _Phil,”_ he had said, “Please, just call me Phil.” 

“I apologize for my language and the state of the kitchen,” Dan gestured to a, at least to Phil’s standards, pretty immaculately clean kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting you, Pr- _Phil.”_

Phil brushed him off, stepping forward and leaning against the island, “I won’t tattle that you said fuck in front of me, if you don’t tattle that I’m saying fuck in front of you.” 

Dan’s eyes somehow got wider before settling into something more relaxed, his shoulders visibly deflating as he took the pressure off his perfect posture. 

Phil couldn’t help the chuckle that left his lips. “Daniel, right?” 

“You can uh, you can call me Dan.” 

“Dan,” the name savored on Phil’s tongue like one of the cakes on the counter between them. Phil smiled, earning a grin less polite and more _real_ in return. 

Phil playfully cocked his head to the side, “Do you think you could make me a coffee?” 

***

The issue with having a _not crush_ crush on a royal pastry chef is that a few spare minutes over coffee and morning prep work quickly becomes not enough. Not enough time, not enough coffee, not enough Dan. 

And Phil, well Phil shouldn’t be fraternizing with _employees_ anyway. He’d rather go streaking across the royal rose garden before calling Dan that though, even if it’s exactly what he is. The way the word leaves his aides’ and parents’ lips make it sound like something that should be said with distaste. An air of looking down their noses that Phil has never let himself conform to.

He’s been hearing that tone far too often though, as he’s questioned about his whereabouts in the early mornings, inquiries as to why there’s chatter amongst gossipy staff about the Prince making daily trips across the palace in his pajamas.

“ _Why must you say it like it’s a bad thing?”_ spat back instead of a real answer. At least that argument steers them away from their questioning, if only just long enough for them to drop it and usher him off to yet another royal engagement. 

With his morning journeys no longer going as unnoticed as he would like, Phil really should be cutting back. 

So, of course, he does the opposite. 

The idea is only half baked — pun intended, always — coming to him as he sips at his second cup of coffee, sitting on an unused stretch of countertop with his heels lightly tapping the cabinet doors below. Dan is standing at the adjacent counter, a pensive, concentrated look on his face as he streams eggs into a whirring stand mixer, watching the whites whip and foam into a meringue. 

“I have a question,” Phil starts, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the stand mixer. 

Dan simply looks up for a moment, then back down at the contents of the stainless steel bowl with a pointed finger in the air. 

Phil waits. Something swelling in his chest that really shouldn’t be there at the fact that Dan won’t stop everything he’s doing simply because the prince has something to say. No one does that — well, maybe except for his brother — and it’s a breath of fresh air. As the prince, he should be annoyed, put out, or otherwise angry. But it’s not like that with Dan. 

Phil relishes in the normalcy of sipping his coffee, waiting for Dan to be satisfied with the peaks in his meringue before he leans over the mixer to flick the switch off and pull up the whisk to detach the bowl. 

Dan turns back to Phil with the bowl in the crook of his arm, gently scraping the mixture away from the side of it with a rubber spatula from the pocket of his apron. The contents are folded gently, Dan’s eyes on Phil like the movements are second nature. A raised eyebrow telling Phil he’s ready to give him his full attention. 

Phil can’t help but bask in it for a moment. Maybe this isn’t the best idea. Not with the way domesticity and _fondness_ are seeping out of the scene in front of him. But Phil has never claimed to be the King of Good Ideas — just, well… the king of an entire country in a rapidly approaching future. 

But that’s beside the point. 

“You can say no,” Phil prefaces — slightly defeating his entire point by reminding someone they’re allowed their own free will, though it’s often necessary with everyone around him always doing exactly as he wishes with no questions asked. He doesn’t want that kind of relationship- _friendship_ with Dan. And even though he’s sure Dan knows that, because Dan is different, it’s still a force of habit. 

“But I was wondering if maybe, if you had some spare time, you could teach me how to bake?” Phil asks.

“I know it might sound silly to you, but I’ve never baked anything before and I want to make something homemade, from scratch, for my mum for her birthday. I have no idea where to even start.” Phil glosses over the pang of guilt in his heart at the half truth that comes out of his mouth. He’s not sure it would be such a good idea to ask _‘Hey I want to spend more time with you, can we do that?’_ That really wouldn’t be appropriate. And it’s not _fully_ a lie per se, he really has never baked, or even cooked, much of anything in his life. He has no idea what Dan is doing ninety percent of the time he watches him work in the mornings. 

It’s just… nowhere near his mum’s birthday. 

He’s not lying. It’s more like he’s simply not telling the truth. There’s a difference, Phil thinks. 

But Dan doesn’t have to know that. 

“Yeah,” Dan smiles, “absolutely.” 

Phil lets out a sigh of relief that he didn’t realize was causing all of his muscles to tense up, and watches as Dan carefully transfers some of the contents of the bowl to a plastic piping bag. Large hands squeeze and twist and Phil can’t seem to look away. Or even speak words. 

“Why don’t you come help me with this?” Dan suggests as he looks up from the dollop of meringue he’s just piped onto the tray, its tip curling over in a perfect little loop at the top. “Your first lesson,” he adds, holding out the piping bag towards Phil. 

Phil sets down his coffee and hops off the counter, hesitantly taking the outstretched piping bag. He tries to replicate Dan’s perfectly swirled meringue, but the shape that ends up on the tray after he squeezes the bag looks more like a disfigured blob than anything even remotely edible. 

Dan chuckles from beside him, taking his hand off his hip to grab at Phil’s.

“Here,” he hums, hovering just behind Phil as his left hand moves Phil’s grip at the tip of the piping bag to the top where he’s twisted it. “You’re right handed, correct?” 

Phil nods, the movement only emphasizing just how close he is to Dan. If he steps back, or even leans back the slightest amount, his back would be completely pressed to Dan’s chest. He has to hold back the shudder that threatens to roll down his body with the feeling of it. Dan’s voice right in his ear. Those big, warm hands moving his so he’s holding the piping bag correctly. 

“Now…” Dan says softly in Phil’s ear, his grip on Phil’s right hand tightening as his hand over Phil’s left loosens. “You want to squeeze from here,” he taps a finger against Phil’s right knuckle, “not here,” the same tap at Phil’s hand by the tip of the bag. 

“You only need to guide with the tip. Only put pressure at the top, okay?”

Dan doesn’t give Phil a chance to respond, moving him under his hold and demonstrating the technique. There’s a firm squeeze over Phil’s hand at the top of the bag as Dan pulls it up from the tray, a perfectly shaped meringue next to Phil’s failed one.

Phil lets out the breath he sucked in and Dan chuckles from behind him, the sound as warm as Dan’s hands. 

“You don’t really need to do much here,” Dan lightly squeezes Phil’s hand by the tip of the bag, “other than keeping it steady as you pull up. If we were doing fancier shapes or icing a cake that would be different, but this is nice and simple.” 

“You think you can give it a go yourself?” Dan asks, his grip on Phil’s hands loosening. 

Phil shakes his head. 

“Show me one more time, please?” He wants to get this right, and not fuck up another one of Dan’s meringues — they’re probably for something far more important than Phil learning how to bake. 

“Alright,” Dan’s voice is light and he moves forward as he grabs Phil’s hands again, this time his chest actually pressing to Phil’s back. Phil becomes even more pliant under the touch, desperately trying to pay attention as Dan creates another perfect dollop. 

He lingers for a moment, and Phil wants to leash it and hold it close so it can’t get away, but it’s gone as quickly as the tip of the last meringue folds over into its little dainty loop. 

“Show me what you got, Philly,” Dan says once he’s stepped away from Phil, now beside him with his brows raised and his arms crossed. 

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Phil gives Dan one last squinted glare before turning back to the tray. His hands shake only slightly as he tries to again replicate Dan’s perfect squeeze.

“Fine, Your High-” 

“Shh!” Phil scolds Dan with a scrunched nose as he slowly pulls up, the meringue looking much better, but still not quite as good as Dan’s. 

Phil looks over at Dan with a pitiful frown on his face. 

“Don’t overthink it.” 

Phil pouts. “I’m not-” 

“I can see it in your expression, you’re overthinking it. Just…” Dan mimes the swift motion of the bag in the air, “a quick little bloop.” 

“A quick little bloop...” Phil muses aloud. Dan nods his head, smiling. 

Phil breathes in and out, then positions the bag over the tray again, this time trying to not think or shake too much, squeezing and pulling up quickly. 

He hears a soft clap next to him as he watches the little peak of the meringue fold over in that perfect loop in awe. 

“I did it!” Phil turns to Dan, a wide smile pulling across his face. 

Dan’s expression is softer, but no less proud, than Phil’s. “You did it,” he says. 

“Now, you just need to do a hundred more,” Dan adds casually with a nod towards the trays on the counter. Phil’s eyes nearly bug out of his head, causing Dan to let out a much too loud cackle for the quiet of the morning. 

“I’m only joking.” Dan steps around Phil and picks up the half-full mixing bowl and an empty piping bag, grabbing yet another rubber spatula from the pocket of his apron. 

“We have _two_ _hundred_ more to make,” he says with a wink, before scooping the meringue into the other bag. 

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Phil asks, but Dan just shushes him, telling him to get back to work. 

Phil doesn’t regret it. 

Dan is quick to suggest that they can meet up whenever he isn’t working, at his apartment, and he’ll teach Phil whatever he wants to learn about baking, or even cooking. For obvious reasons, despite how much Phil wants to, he can’t be meeting up with Dan at his place. So Phil suggests using the small kitchen he meets him in almost every morning, he can meet Dan there after his shifts on days he doesn’t have any evening engagements. 

That, of course, poses issues as well, because it can never be simple or easy when it comes to Phil’s life. Dan making Phil aware of the other chefs that use the pastry kitchen after Dan’s shift, apparently he’s only left alone in the early morning hours of the day. Dan makes the point that it would be far less inconspicuous for Phil to leave the palace than it would be to come back down in the evenings, if that’s what Phil is so worried about. 

Phil’s sigh is long and deep, nothing can ever be inconspicuous when it comes to his life. 

Phil isn’t entirely sure what he is so worried about, but he keeps that to himself. He doesn’t need Dan knowing how it’s less about having to explain he’s taking baking lessons from the young pastry chef if they get caught, but more about having to explain _why_ he suddenly has an interest in baking. It has nothing to do with homemade gifts, and everything to do with honey brown eyes and large, warm hands always covered in flour. 

Because the real interest here is in the pastry chef himself. 

He would like to think he’s a good liar, what with the different masks he shuffles through throughout his days, but there’s something about Dan that breaks down every wall and ounce of training within him. That is, if the way his cheeks are still tinged pink when he catches his reflection in his mirror after going back to his room is anything to go by. Phil’s eyes even look different, as he stares himself down in the mirror, trying to school soft eyes and an involuntary lopsided grin into something more acceptable - more regal. It’s pretty much an impossible task, as their last conversation keeps running through his head — for no reason other than committing Dan’s voice to memory. 

_“Why don’t you keep coming down here in the mornings? Maybe we can both show up earlier and you can help me with prep…” Dan’s thoughtful voice in Phil’s ear. The vision of his hands moving — a pastry bag still gripped in one of them._

_“I’m always doing a bit of everything, so I think you’d learn quickly that way. And it wouldn’t be much different to your usual routine from an outside eye.” Dan winking, over and over like Phil is button-mashing the rewind button of his brain._

_“That would be okay with you?”_

_“Of course it is, I wouldn’t suggest it otherwise.” Dan’s wide smile, a dimple in each cheek. “So what do you say?”_

_“Sounds like a deal.”_

_Dan’s warm hand in his as they shake._

Phil looks down at his hand, the smeared meringue on the back of his hand stares back at him — a mark left that he’ll have to wash off before changing out of his pajamas and into something more appropriate for his day’s activities. 

Phil is _royally_ fucked, isn’t he? 

***

“The key to the perfect chocolate chip cookie is to- Phi-il!” Dan swipes the open bag of chocolate chips from Phil, unable to stop him from pouring the handful of chocolates he shook out onto his palm into his mouth. 

Dan sighs. “The key to the perfect chocolate chip cookie is to not eat all the chocolate chips before you even start making the dough.”

“What?” Phil hums innocently through a mouthful of melting chocolates. “I can’t very well eat them once they’re mixed into the raw dough. Might as well have a taste now.” 

Dan gives him an incredibly _done_ look, completely unconvinced by his act. 

“I was just making sure they were still good?” Phil tries with a lift of his shoulders, his tongue poking out to swipe at the chocolate at the corner of his mouth. 

Dan rolls his eyes. “That’s what the expiration date is for,” he flips the bag of chips over and points at the small date printed on the side. 

“Oh, let me see,” Phil feigns innocence, squinting his eyes and pushing his glasses further up his nose for good measure. 

Dan starts to hand over the bag, but he quickly sees through Phil, pulling it back and clutching it to his chest. 

“You are a real-” 

Phil raises his brows, effectively shutting Dan up. Dan’s eyes squint, narrowing as he bites his lip, staring Phil down. 

“Go ahead,” Phil lifts his chin, speaking through a wide grin — his laughter desperate to escape. 

Dan sighs, “You’re a real piece of work.” 

“Oh, is that what you were going to say?” 

“Something like that.” Dan bumps his hip against Phil’s. “Now as I was saying…” 

***

“Dan?” 

Dan looks up from where he’s been bent over the counter piping tiny flowers to the bottom layer of the cake in front of him. “Yeah?” 

“I-” Phil bites his lip, bowing his head to peer back down into the large stand mixer. 

A small hum leaves Dan’s throat. 

“I don’t know if I just poured three hundred grams of sugar into this or three hundred grams of salt,” Phil rushes out, speaking mostly into the mixer instead of projecting his voice over to Dan. 

“Oh my god,” Dan laughs. “Taste it.” 

“I can’t taste it!” Phil gasps. “It’s raw dough!” 

“It’s just butter and sugar. Or salt,” Dan rolls his eyes. “You’ll be fine.”

Phil hangs his head lower in shame. 

“I may have already poured the eggs in,” he whispers. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Dan sighs, but there’s no real malice in his voice. He sets his pastry bag down and steps around the counter, over to Phil. A rubber spatula is procured from the pocket of his apron — today it’s the pink one — and he dips its edge into the mixture. 

Dan lifts the spatula to his lips and- 

“Wait,” Phil lunges forward to grab the handle of the spatula, his hand wrapping around Dan’s. “You can’t eat that,” Phil says dryly. 

Dan lifts a brow in challenge, then sticks his tongue out to swipe against the head of the spatula that Phil still has a firm grip to. His face instantly scrunches up, spluttering as he loosens his grip under Phil’s hand and coughs a few times. 

“Told you so,” Phil huffs after Dan is finished coughing, now holding Dan’s abandoned spatula between them as Dan is bent over with a hand on each knee. 

Dan lifts a hand, still making an absolutely sour face when he looks up. “No it’s fine. Definitely salt though, how did you even manage that?” 

“I’m not quite sure to be honest,” Phil shrugs. 

“Well come on, let’s start over Salty Man,” Dan laughs, flicking up the stand mixer and pulling the bowl out to bring it over to the sink. “This time you follow the instructions.” 

“I get impatient,” Phil whines. 

As Dan’s laugh fills the small kitchen, Phil decides it’s more than worth the ruined cake mix. 

***

“We really need to stop eating this,” Dan hums. Though he doesn’t mind his own words at all, sticking a clean spatula back into the large bowl of berry compote on the counter — the one meant to be topping the lemon tarts that are currently in the oven. 

“But it’s _so_ good,” Phil protests after pulling his own jammy berry juice covered spoon out of his mouth. 

Dan sticks the spatula in his mouth, moaning around it at the taste. Phil has to look away. If he’s learned one unwavering thing about Dan, it’s that as he gets more comfortable around Phil he has absolutely no regard for his actions around anything that tastes good. Which is a significant issue when they are meeting multiple times a week to bake delicious food. 

Phil isn’t going to complain though, he likes seeing this more real, carefree side of Dan. Even if it sometimes makes a low whine threaten to escape the back of his throat. 

Dan pulls the spatula out of his mouth, sucking it clean with an audible pop before pointing it towards Phil’s chest. He’s always doing that, communicating with his hands — and utensils — in more ways than one. Gesticulating wildly as he explains things. Waving his seemingly endless supply of spatulas around when his hands aren’t free. Tapping spoons against countertops. Tapping spoons against Phil’s arm. Tapping spoons against any surface nearby, really. 

Softer touches as well — a brush of a hand against Phil’s when they aren’t otherwise occupied by something he can slap him with. Dan’s quite tactile. 

Phil guesses it makes sense for someone who works with their hands. It’s not something he relates to, for obvious reasons, but he falls into it as if it were something he’s been used to doing his entire life. A light, playful whack here and there. A gentle squeeze at Dan’s shoulder or wrist that communicates whatever he’s trying to say better than any words could. 

“You know what we should do?” Dan’s voice brings Phil’s eyes up from the bright red rubber top of the spatula, focusing on brown eyes instead. 

“No…” Phil purses his lips in thought. 

“Weeeee... should make breakfast!” 

“Are you suggesting that breakfast _isn’t_ the two cakes I stole off your tray when I first came in?” Phil asks, an innocent tone for the crimes he’s committed. 

Dan gasps, it’s dramatic and overdone, absolutely comical — the spatula slapped against his chest with his hand leaving a faint purple stain on his apron. 

“You’re lucky I started making extras since you made a habit of coming around,” Dan waves his spatula in Phil’s face before flinging it into the sink. “Now, how do you like your eggs?” 

***

The weeks pass in cherry turnover red stained lips, almost burnt blueberry scones, and so many trays of cupcakes Phil thinks he could ice the perfect swirled mountain atop them in his sleep. They pass in lingering gazes, flour handprints on the fabric of shirts clinging to shoulders and hips, and Phil undeniably tumbling further and further down as he falls. 

Baking with Dan is something fun and carefree, an outlet Phil didn’t know he so desperately needed until he had it. Mornings are looked forward to, more and more each day, and though endless meetings will never not be boring, they’re less dreadful when they aren’t the only thing done in a day. 

It has nothing to do with baking and everything to do with Dan. Dan is fun and carefree. He’s funny and sarcastic in a shamelessly dark way. He takes no shit from Phil and sends the teasing right back. Dan doesn’t bow his head or even tell Phil when he’s leaving the kitchens with hot pink icing smeared across his cheek. 

There’s banter and jokes, but Dan is also so patient and thoughtful in his teaching. Phil actually learns to bake. He learns the difference between baking powder and soda, that leavening isn’t a spell from some book about wizards, and that when Dan is particularly focused or flustered a bright patch of strawberry red takes residence on his jaw. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen. Falling in love, that is. But Phil reckons he already had a foot off that ledge that very first day he stepped into the small pastry kitchen — there was no stopping it. He probably shouldn’t have encouraged it. He shouldn’t be waking up early and spending the first two hours of his days in the kitchens. But something about this relationship with Dan is special to Phil, deep down he knows it means more than appearances and traditions. Even if it’s purely platonic, it’s something Phil needs. And if he’s not mistaken, it seems like Dan needs it too. 

And besides, it’s less inappropriate if it’s nothing more than a friendship, so Phil reins in that pull of yearning he feels in his chest when he thinks of Dan. 

Or well, he tries at least. It’s proving to be quite difficult. 

Phil has just barely cracked his eyes open, stretching in bed as he debates reaching an arm out of the warmth of the blankets to locate his glasses on his bedside table, when there’s a sharp knock at his door. 

Phil mumbles something unintelligible and the door opens. It probably would have been pushed open regardless of the response, but Phil is, unfortunately, used to those kinds of things by now. 

What he isn’t used to is the smell of coffee floating around his room and into his nose with the new presence in the room. He hasn’t had coffee or breakfast sent up in what feels like, and probably has been, months now. 

He rubs his eyes and pushes himself up, pulling his duvet with him. The plush fabric is held tight against his shoulders to keep the chilled morning air out. 

The member of Phil’s staff — one he hasn’t seen for quite some time — bows his head as he steps through the threshold of Phil’s room. In his hands is a large white mug on a comically small matching plate, the source of the warm, nutty smell that’s quickly taking over Phil’s room. 

“Good morning, Your Highness.” 

Phil’s half awake brain reminds him to not physically cringe at the greeting. 

“There’s a, um, note for you,” he adds as the plate is set down on Phil’s side table. 

Phil quirks a brow, then follows the gaze of the other man to the cream colored tear of paper tucked under the mug. Phil tells him to wait for a moment, leaning over to grab both his glasses and the folded note. 

The handwriting is messy, barely legible to Phil’s hazy, morning eyes, but after a few blinks and a couple re-reads he gets the memo. Smiling, because it’s a note from Dan, while feeling a pang of disappointment at its contents, Phil asks the man hovering by the foot of his bed to fetch him a pen from his desk. 

_hi some important peace meeting or whatever came up that apparently needs hundreds of pastries they didn’t tell me about kitchen is in full panic mode there are ten too many chefs in my kitchen it’s a nightmare so we can’t bake today i’m sorry :( see u tomorrow tho! - Dan_

Phil is quick to jot a response back, just a few words — or, well, more like seven words, a string of numbers, and his name next to a lopsided smiley face — before handing the paper back to the man. Phil doesn’t even have to ask, “ _I’ll make sure he gets this,”_ uttered before it’s slipped into the pocket of his trousers and Phil is asked if he needs anything else. 

  
  


_You know you can just text me :) Phil_

Phil is left alone with another courteous bow that he forces himself to grin through, and he decides to enjoy the coffee Dan’s made him from the warmth of his bed. It would make more sense to go back to sleep, given that he now has no reason to be up and awake before the sun, but that would mean a cooled cup of coffee on his bedside table when he wakes again.

And if there’s one thing Phil thinks he may love as much as Dan, it would be Dan’s coffee. 

***

It’s much, much later when Phil’s phone buzzes, vibrating on the desk he’s just tossed it on so he could get himself out of the stiff material of his nice, navy blue trousers that he’s been stuck in all day. As it turned out, Phil was required to attend the very meeting that cut into his daily Dan time. And he’s maybe, _definitely_ , far more put out about not seeing Dan than having to spend the day schmoozing with no preparation. 

He could use a long soak in a hot bath, he muses as he leaves his trousers, coat, undershirt, et all in rumpled piles on his bedroom floor. He swipes his phone off the desk before padding into his — in all honesty, comically large — ensuite. 

As the tub fills, and after Phil has plonked in a fizzing bath bomb that begins to fill the room with a strong eucalyptus scent, he finally scrolls through his notifications. It’s methodical as he swipes away reminders, events, and emails, scanning them and only just absorbing the important info as he always does. Anything he overlooks, someone will remind him of, so there’s never much of a need to bother. The perks of being a prince, he guesses. 

He’s not quite sure if perks would be the phrase that fits, though. 

There’s one notification that catches his eye. A few texts from mere minutes earlier. From an unknown number. 

Phil’s heart rate spikes, panicking for all of three seconds before remembering he willingly handed out his number earlier that morning — what seemed like actual days ago with how long his day has been. Once his breathing is back to normal, no longer worrying about another Prince Philip’s Leaked Number-Gate, he opens the messages and reads them with a growing smile. 

_hi it’s dan here’s my number if you want it_

_sorry again about ditching our plans :(_

_hope you had a good day_

Phil saves Dan’s number in his phone, then taps out a response with his bottom lip between his teeth before pressing send and sliding into his now full bath. 

**Phil:** _Hey! It’s okay! I had to go to that stupid snoozefest so I was thrown off too, much stress -__-_

**Dan:** _no you did not just use a myspace level emoticon_

**Phil:** _^__^_

**Dan:** _smh_

**Dan:** _i wish i could say i’m surprised but i’m not_

 **Dan:** _day less stressful now i hope?_

Phil sighs as he lets himself slide further into the bath, the steaming water soothing his tense muscles. 

**Phil:** _A bit. Currently on a date with my soaking tub._

Phil sends off the bathtub and duck emojis after his message, and without a second thought, he taps to open his camera with a damp thumb. The picture is snapped quickly, Phil’s head peeking out from the bubbly water. The camera lens is foggy, his eyes wide, and his hair a disheveled mess. It’s sent to Dan even quicker. 

**Phil:** _First Date. Kinda nervous._

The three dots pop up instantly, then they disappear without a reply. Then they pop up again. Phil watches with a smug smile tugging at his lips as they come and go for a good three minutes. After a long pause, Dan’s grey message finally pops up. 

**Dan:** _jealous_

Phil snorts to himself. 

**Phil:** _If you want a date with the prince you have to wait in the queue behind my tub and that one kind of sexy American cereal mascot._

Phil adds three tiger emojis before Dan has a chance to respond. Once again, those three dots come and go for quite some time. 

**Dan:** _1 was talking about the bath my flat doesn’t have a tub but ok i guess i’ll get in line_

 **Dan:** _2 did you seriously just call tony the tiger sexy_

**Phil:** _He’s fit_

**Dan:** _shut the fuck up the prince is not a furry_

**Phil:** _…_

 **Phil:** _And?_

**Dan:** _no me too_

 **Dan:** _have you ever seen this guy?_

Phil waits for a while as the dots disappear. No more than thirty seconds later a photo pops up under the grey messages. What seems to be a wolf mascot in a football kit waves at Phil. 

**Dan:** _my furry bf <3_

**Phil:** _Of course you’d be taken </3 _

**Dan:** _who said me and my furry bf were monogamous?????_

**Phil:** _Noted._

 **Phil:** _Not really into polygamy tho :/_

Phil’s fingers are quick to tap out a third message, the three dots ceasing as he does so. The line between playful jokes and Phil being serious is far too thin for him to be walking on. It’s dangerous to keep on with it when he knows it means far more to himself than it does to Dan. 

**Phil:** _So how was your day?_

Soaking in his tub, fingers and toes slowly becoming shriveled raisins, Phil snorts and laughs and sighs along to Dan’s discombobulated, animated retelling of the perils of his day over text. And they keep talking, even as Phil is pulling himself out of the cooled water and wrapping himself in far too many plush towels. Complaints and stories and inappropriate memes shot back and forth as Phil gets himself into pajamas and burrows himself into his bed. 

Messages that slowly become incoherent, but don’t cease on account of that, as the night turns into the next day and Phil’s eyelids close on their own accord. 

Everything about it is nice. And Phil so desperately wishes it was something he could get used to. 

***

Despite having every reason under the sun not to, Phil does gets used to texting Dan. 

It just… never stopped after the day he gave Dan his number. Little random messages sent back and forth throughout the day. Phil getting told off like some sort of teenager in school as he starts to make a habit of pulling his phone out during meetings and engagements. Messages sent with many frowny faces whenever one of them can’t make their morning baking lessons. 

And far too many nights spent over the phone after evening texts somehow always turn to heated debates and discussions that can only be had in real time — both Dan and Phil finding themselves with silence on the other line in the early morning hours, the other having fallen asleep. 

Nights in which they aren’t speaking, in one way or another, quickly become rare. 

So Phil is apologetic in the string of crying face emojis he sends Dan after being stuck in meetings back to back all day only to be whisked off to some important dinner that runs far too late in the night for Phil’s liking. With the same squinting, disappointed look from both of his parents after the second time he’s caught with his phone, Phil left it untouched. 

**Dan:** _bad day?_

**Phil:** _Even worse_

**Dan:** _oh no what :(_

**Phil:** _I have to leave at 6 tomorrow morning for an event off grounds :((((((((_

**Dan:** _ugh_

 **Dan:** _and to think i was going to teach you the wonders of yeasted doughs_

**Phil:** _I don’t know what that means but I bet it would be better than some stupid adult tea party_

**Dan:** _yk sometimes i forget who you are and then you remind me you’re at fancy tea parties every other day and its like_

 **Dan:** _oh yeah that’s a thing_

**Phil:** :( 

**Phil:** _Is it bad that I like when you forget who I am?_

**Dan:** _yes_

 **Dan:** _because i like who you are_

 **Dan:** _tea parties and kissing babies and all that jazz_

**Phil:** _I do not kiss babies!_

After a few moments of no response from Dan, a photo pops up. Phil groans, tossing his phone to the side as he buries his head in his pillows. A few more moments pass before Phil’s ringtone is going off. 

“I hate you,” Phil groans once he’s accepted the call. No formalities or greetings. 

Dan laughs on the other end. It doesn’t sound quite the same as it does in person, but it melts Phil’s heart all the same. 

“Not my fault you choose to tell lies when you know there’s pictures of you all over Google,” Dan huffs. 

“I still don’t know why people think that does any good,” Phil says as he puts the phone on speaker, rolling back over to sigh dramatically into his pillow. 

“I dunno,” Dan hums, “I don’t believe in luck, but I can’t act like I wouldn’t think it would be granted to me if I were a baby and the Prince kissed my forehead.” 

Phil rolls his eyes, “If you were a baby?” 

“Or like, now,” Dan mutters so quietly it’s almost inaudible. Phil isn’t quite sure if he heard correctly or if his overtired mind had simply made it up. He really should be getting to sleep. 

“Goodnight, Dan,” Phil says instead of questioning it. 

Dan’s laughter fills Phil’s room one last time. “Sleep tight, Phil.” 

***

Exhaustion is seeping through all of Phil’s bones as he drags his feet across the palace floors. Even though getting up before the sun has been part of his routine for quite some time now, there’s something fundamentally different about spending those early morning hours in the calm hum of Dan’s kitchen than being stuffed in the back of an SUV following a motorcade to go spend too many hours on his best behavior in a far too fancy place with far too many strangers. He doesn’t even need to check his phone to know it’s still an hour or so before dinnertime. Though it feels so much later — as he takes the long route back to his wing to avoid running into anyone he would be required to debrief — the muted sounds of the kitchens preparing a meal he doesn’t quite care to sit down for validate his estimation. 

All he can think about is getting out of the shoes on his feet that are starting to lean on the side of uncomfortable, and the prospects of ditching dinner with his family for a bowl of cereal and a catch up on some teen guilty pleasure show from the comforts of his bed. The life of a prince and the life of an introvert are two things that should probably not be able to coexist, yet here Phil is. 

Though the jury’s still out if coexisting is the right term to use in his situation. 

It’s not like he hates his life, or his job — his job _being_ his life, but he won’t get existential about that — it’s just that sometimes it becomes too much. Sometimes he so desperately wants to switch his brain off and dream of a somewhat normal life. But he knows that’s asking for far too much. 

And besides, he’s comfortable. He’s happy, for the most part. For every two incredibly boring, long winded meetings or engagements he’s whisked off to, there are one or two he’s genuinely passionate or excited about. And he does take pride in the turning gears of social change he’s directly had his hands in. Knowing that people only take him seriously in the things he’s passionate about when he keeps the peace by keeping up appearances for everything else is properly annoying, but it’s a fact he’s come to accept. Phil plays the game and he plays it well. 

Although he cannot say he lives a normal life, it’s truly a life of give and take — and he’d like to believe that’s quite normal in it of itself. So maybe it’s not too far off from all those ‘ _normal life’_ daydreams he has. 

Once again too caught up in his own mind — thoughts and daydreams and echoing footsteps from tired feet in fairly empty palace hallways — Phil doesn’t even sense the other presence until a hand is wrapped around his bicep and forcefully tugging him into a corridor. 

Phil lets out a small squeak at the contact, his clumsy feet nearly losing their footing as he's pulled and pushed until he’s cornered into a small secluded alcove. 

This isn’t some sort of kidnapping or robbery or prank by his brother, Phil’s shoulders loose their tension as he looks into brown eyes. 

It’s Dan. 

_Dan._

Mussed up curls and little bits of flour joining the freckles dusting his cheeks. Big, warm hands on both of Phil’s shoulders. The brightly colored apron that completely contrasts his dark slacks and button up — and well, his entire personality. A smirk on lips that somehow still look so kissable even with the dent in the bottom one from his habit of biting at it all the time. 

Not like Phil spends a lot of time looking at Dan’s lips. And not like Phil is thinking about kissing Dan or anything… 

“Dan,” Phil breathes, relief and surprise in the hushed gasp of his voice, “oh my god-” 

Dan’s fingers are pressed to Phil’s lips, effectively shutting him up. His eyes are conspiratorial, mischievous as he leans into Phil’s space and peeks his head around the corner, peering down the hall as Phil catches his breath. 

“Mm-what are you doing?” Phil’s inquiry is muffled by Dan’s fingers still soft against his lips. Upon Phil’s words, Dan pulls back, taking his hand away to press a long index finger to his own mouth as a wide grin spreads across his entire face. 

Dan squeezes at Phil’s shoulder, the flour that seems to always be present on his hands leaving evidence of the touch on the ornamental epaulette fashioned to Phil’s jacket. But that’s not what Phil is thinking about, not at all. 

“Stealing you, obviously,” Dan’s eyes glint as he explains like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Oh, so I _should_ be calling for help then?” Phil raises a brow, the teasing evident in how he’s matched Dan’s hushed tone. He crosses his arms over his chest as he gives Dan a pointed look. Though it’s incredibly hard to keep up the facade with Dan so close he’s basically pressed up against him, Phil feeling the warmth of Dan’s chest against his forearms even through his thick jacket — that same warmth down his side with Dan trailing his hand from his shoulder to his hip, giving him another playful squeeze. 

Phil might just have to write off this outfit all together, stuff it into the back of his closet and feign innocence if asked about its whereabouts instead of handing it over to be dry cleaned and having to explain why it’s thoroughly covered in flour. 

But once again, that’s not a thought that holds Phil’s attention for long. Not with those warm, honey-brown eyes looking at him at such a small distance. 

Phil’s own eyes crinkle at the corners, unable to hold the pout he was trying to keep on. He doesn’t quite understand why seeing Dan is so welcomed after having such a long, tiring day that leaves him yearning for solitude, but he welcomes the warm, fluttering feelings in his chest regardless. Sometimes things don’t need to make sense. Phil learned that lesson the very first time he felt his heart flip over in his chest at the sight of Dan. 

He and Dan should not be a thing. It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t make sense. And yet, it does. 

To Phil, at least. But sometimes he does wonder, with the soft touches and lingering gazes, if it makes sense to Dan as well. 

Oh what a dangerous thing to wonder. 

A similar danger to the current look in Dan’s eyes. The kind that makes you want to run straight towards it and never stop. 

“On the scale of a slap on the wrist to off with his head, how bad would it be if I kidnapped you?” 

Phil purses his lips. “Probably a life sentence,” he replies with a shrug. 

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Dan beams, then squeezes at Phil’s side again. “No but really, I’m about to take off for the night, care to join me?” 

“Join you?” 

“Yeah.” Dan bites his lip, Phil watching with great interest as it springs back into place once it’s released. “Dinner at mine? You like cheese when it’s on pizza, right?” 

“ _Only_ when it’s on pizza,” Phil clarifies. 

Dan smiles, nodding once. “Then it’s a date.” 

“Wait, I didn’t agree to anything!” Phil says incredulously as Dan grabs at his arm and tries to tug him down the hall. Dan stops in his tracks and turns back to Phil. 

“Well,” Dan raises his brows, “are you declining?” 

Phil huffs, a smile threatening to tug at the corners of his mouth. He probably looks ridiculous with his lips twitching as Dan blinks at him, hand still firmly wrapped around his bicep. He doesn’t care too much though, as _date_ keeps ringing in his ears. 

“No, not at all,” Phil says once he’s found his voice. Dan beams. 

“Perfect.” 

“But I’m not the most inconspicuous right now,” Phil says quickly, gesturing to his getup. 

Dan snorts, tugging at Phil’s arm again, this time Phil following with eager feet. “It’s a good thing I’m so smart and have my car parked by the kitchen delivery bay then, isn’t it?” 

“You evil mastermind,” Phil giggles. 

Their voices are still hushed as they walk down the corridor and through familiar side doors, but their loud steps and reverberating giggles aren’t given a second thought. Even if they were, Phil doesn’t think they’d be able to stop them. He’s never able to control himself completely when it comes to Dan. And honestly, he’s starting to lose the little resolve he has left about keeping whatever this is a secret. 

“Listen we’ve both been super busy and maybe I like, miss you or something,” Dan mutters as he lets go of Phil’s arm to untie his apron. Phil’s mouth goes dry for more than one reason as he watches Dan’s arms flex as he lifts the thin fabric over his head to pull it off. His brain is nothing more than a cloud of _Dan, Dan, Dan_ and the reminder to put one foot in front of the other as Dan hangs his apron on a hook on the wall before pushing open the back door. 

He doesn’t even realize that he’s let the air fall quiet between the two of them until Dan is stopping in the doorway, the chilled, evening spring air blowing his musky cologne into Phil’s nose as he turns and looks at Phil with a nervous expression. 

“I’ve missed you too,” Phil says quietly. 

Relief washes over Dan’s face, a soft smile replacing the dent his teeth were pressing into his bottom lip. 

Phil doesn’t think about kissing it.

And by that he means it’s all he thinks about. 

He’s still thinking about it as Dan turns back around. He’s thinking about it as he follows Dan to his car. He wouldn’t be able to tell you the make or the model or even the color as he sits in the passenger seat, because he’s too busy staring at Dan’s lips as they talk a mile a minute. The gaze only wavers to watch big hands hit alternating taps against the steering wheel while Dan tells Phil about whatever artist is blasting through the tinny speakers of the car. 

The drive goes by in a flash, though Phil wouldn’t be able to tell you if Dan actually lives close to the palace or if his perception is all out of sorts when he’s staring at those slightly chapped pink lips. Dan is none the wiser. He jets out of the car the second he shuts it off, a devious expression on his face as Phil hits his shoulder a few times after he opens the passenger door for Phil with a bow. He gives Phil a playful punch back and the street is filled with their free, unabashed laughter. 

“Come on, Your Royal Weirdness,” Dan holds his hand out with a dip of his head and Phil takes it with a snort and a shake of his own. 

“That’s a new one,” Phil says as he’s led up the stairs and through a bright blue door that Dan easily unlocks with his free hand. 

“Thank you,” Dan says smugly, tugging Phil up an actual flight of stairs once they’re inside. “I’m proud of it.” 

“I didn’t say I liked it!” Phil huffs. 

Dan stops abruptly, almost knocking Phil down the stairs if it weren’t for his tight grip at his hand. “You didn’t need to,” Dan smirks, “I could tell.” 

“God, you’re insufferable,” Phil shakes his head, his tone — and the smile on his face — entirely too soft for the words he’s saying. 

Dan simply raises a brow, his own grin spreading until there’s a dimple in each of his cheeks. He drops Phil’s hand and starts back up the stairs instead of a response. Leaving Phil, and the affection vibrating throughout his entire body, to follow on his own. And of course, he does. 

Dan’s flat is at the top of the stairs. Through a crisp white door with a golden 2 above the peephole Phil follows, bending down to untie his dress shoes and pull them off as Dan stops in front of him to kick his own off. 

Dan nudges his shoes up against the entryway wall with a black socked foot and snorts at the mismatched colorful foxes and cacti that are revealed when Phil finally gets his shoes off. 

“What?” Phil asks as he places his shoes next to Dan’s. The only thing that keeps them from being completely out of place next to the assorted pairs of canvas trainers and the big chunky boots lined up against the wall is that they’re black — other than that, they really stick out like a sore thumb. Phil bets he himself looks just as out of place as his shoes, if not more. 

But for some reason, he doesn’t feel it. 

“Nothing,” Dan smiles when Phil pops back up, “just endearing, that’s all.” 

“Endearing,” Phil hums, not entirely sure what that means coming from Dan. And he doesn’t get a moment to find out, because Dan is turning on his heel, moving his hands around as he gives Phil a vague tour of the open plan they’ve walked into. 

“I put together a dough this morning because my body wouldn’t let me sleep in, but I didn’t have much of a reason to go into work early,” Dan explains as Phil follows him into the open kitchen. 

“Actually, wait,” Dan spins around, almost smacking Phil in the face with the hand he’s waving in the air, “you probably want to get out of that.” 

Phil immediately quirks a brow. 

“Shut up,” Dan is quick to laugh. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Phil raises both his hands as a white flag. 

“I mean _I_ am going to put on pajamas,” Dan says with a pointed look, tugging at the collar of his black button up. “Do you want some comfy clothes?” 

“Yes please,” Phil nods his head, eager at the prospect of both wearing Dan’s clothes _and_ no longer being in his formal attire. With a cheeky wink and a “ _be right back”_ Dan disappears down seemingly the only hallway in the flat, and Phil is left alone in the middle of Dan’s kitchen. 

Dan’s flat is very _bright_ , even with the dark grey cabinets and countertops that fill the kitchen. It’s mostly on account of the bright white walls and the large glass doors that lead out to a small balcony to the left of the kitchen. It’s all open, Phil stepping around the big kitchen island to peer out at Dan’s view, also seemingly stepping into a small dining area between the kitchen and lounge areas. A simple, sleek grey table with two matching chairs — nothing but a black vase with white roses sat in the middle of it. 

After inspecting Dan’s balcony — just a simple black wicker chair set up to look out at the apartment building next to this one — Phil steps past the round table and into the small lounge area. It’s cordoned off from the rest of the open room by a large — you guessed it — grey L-shaped sofa. The hardwood that’s been under Phil’s socked feet turns plush as he walks onto the black area rug anchored under the sofa. Dan has a large flatscreen across from the couch and shelves upon shelves of what looks like games and movies, for which Phil isn’t surprised, he’s heard enough hours of Dan opinions and rants to know they’re on very similar levels of nerd. 

Phil notices that the art on the walls that caught his eye when they first walked in — being the only pops of color in the room — are actually vinyl album covers. Embarrassingly, he only realizes this when he spots the bright orange _Origin of Symmetry_ one that wasn’t in his line of sight from the front door. 

He’s stood up close, squinting to read a few of the others he doesn’t recognize — the black and white oil slick looking one is Radiohead, apparently — when Dan clears his throat from behind him. Phil doesn’t turn quickly though, still a bit transfixed on the, honestly, more unsettling one with a red devil-looking person on it. 

Dan is cute and all but maybe he’s a bit weird. 

“Arca,” Dan’s voice is much closer now, stepping up right next to Phil. 

“Bless you,” Phil says on instinct. He pries his eyes away from the creepy art to catch Dan’s face squish up into something hilarious, a loud honk of a laugh accompanying it. 

Phil doesn’t know why he’s laughing, so he stands there fiddling with his hands nervously as Dan shakes his head. 

With a wheeze and a sighed “ _wow”_ Dan looks from Phil to the art on the wall. 

“That’s the artist’s name,” Dan deadpans, but Phil catches the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t know why it makes his heart swoop — well, yes, he does, but he can pretend like he doesn’t. It’s a matter of principle. 

“Oh!” 

Dan just giggles, bumping his shoulder against Phil’s. After a few moments, Dan pointing out another cover that doesn’t have a visible name on it and the two of them exchanging a knowing look as they agree on Muse’s best album, Phil is handed the bundle of clothes Dan’s been holding and he makes his way down the hallway to the bathroom that was pointed out. 

He has a wee, frees himself from his stiff clothes, and pulls on Dan’s soft pajamas — dark _Game Of Thrones_ joggers upon further inspection and a basic black and white striped tee shirt. Phil doesn’t feel much smaller than Dan — maybe only when their hands pass over one another or Phil has to tilt his chin the slightest bit to meet Dan’s eye when he’s not slouching over the pastry kitchen’s counters — but he does as he rinses Dan’s woodsy smelling hand soap off his hands, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. Dan’s striped tee hangs loosely off his body, big and cozy in a similar fashion to his own favorite pajama shirts. 

For some reason, Phil really likes the way he looks in it. And there’s more to it than the lack of color that Phil’s wardrobe — both personal and royal — is full of. 

Speaking of Phil’s wardrobe, he shakes himself out of his brief daydream and folds the clothes that were haphazardly thrown on the floor. His mum’s voice is in his head about all the creases he’s putting into the fabric, but he could not seem to care less, going as far as tossing the pile of clothes onto Dan’s love-seat even after Dan bumps into him in the hall and offers to hang them. 

To hell with rules has kind of been Phil’s motto lately, he would say he doesn’t know when that started, how he managed to become so careless about the royal ways, but that just wouldn’t be the truth. 

Despite now being in an oversized shirt with cats dressed like astronauts on it and a pair of black joggers instead of the dark button up and slacks Phil is used to, Dan doesn’t look out of the ordinary. Maybe it’s because he pulls a black apron that’s hanging from a hook on the wall next to a few more black aprons — there’s really a commitment to monochromatic schemes here — over his head as they make their way back into the kitchen. 

“Oh do you want one? I don’t really care if you get that shirt gross though,” Dan says over his shoulder, gesturing to the hanging aprons before stepping over to the fridge and disappearing behind its door. 

Phil giggles as he rifles through the aprons, a few of them are a plain black like the one Dan has on, but most have designs or words on the chest. _World’s Best Grandma. My Eyes Are Up Here_ with an arrow pointing up. _UGH_ embroidered quite fancily over the big pocket. There’s even one with a white skeleton design all over. 

He skips past the one that says _Kiss The Cock_ with an image of a rooster under it, as much as he’s tempted, and goes for the one that says “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING” because it seems quite fitting. 

“How do you…” Phil mumbles as he attempts to reach behind himself to tie the apron, realizing quickly that his perception of where his limbs are at any given moment is definitely still subpar when he can’t see them. 

Dan huffs out a laugh and steps over with a soft smile. “Here,” he says as he steps right into Phil’s personal space, reaching around Phil’s middle and tying the two strings in a bow with a practiced ease. There’s no good reason for him to have done that, just as there’s no good reason for the pause that feels far longer than it probably is as they stand there basically pressed nose to nose, chest to chest, looking in each other’s eyes. But Phil doesn’t overthink it. 

Dan is just a touchy person, and they’ve become incredibly close over the past few months, he doesn’t need to be getting his hopes up that it means anything more than that. As much as Phil wants it to, it really can’t mean anything more than that. Not as long as he’s the prince, and Dan his royal pastry chef. 

As quickly as Dan tied the bow, he’s back out of Phil’s bubble and pulling out a large wood cutting board from a cabinet under the island. 

“How would you rate your chopping skills?” Dan asks, pointing a large knife at the vegetables he’s set out on the board. 

“Um,” Phil bites his lip. “Do you fancy a trip to A&E?” 

Dan laughs, a roll of the eyes that seems far too fond directed at Phil.  
“Impromptu lesson,” Dan declares, picking up an onion and tossing it at Phil. Phil catches it with a squeak and a jump, just barely stopping it from hitting him right in the neck. “You will leave this kitchen with basic knife skills and all ten fingers.” 

“Who said I had ten fingers?” 

Dan groans. Phil’s loud laugh fills the small apartment, drowning out whatever insult that sounds far more like a term of endearment as it leaves Dan’s lips. 

Though his chopping skills and the pile of vegetables in various shapes and sizes are proof that Phil would never make it to _Master Chef_ , he manages to keep all fingers and limbs in the process. No appendages are sacrificed, even through all the laughing and joking and playful slaps of the spatula Phil finds in the pocket of the apron he’s borrowing — he really should inquire why and how Dan seems to have like… hundreds of them at all times. 

He listens as Dan chatters and explains how doughs and bulk fermentation and rise times work. Dan lets Phil punch his fist into the dough before Dan rolls it out, doing _something_ to help the dough do _something_ — Phil tries to pay attention, he really does, but he’s just so distracted by this cozy, homey Dan right up close next to him. 

Phil squeaks and ducks as Dan rolls out the dough and flings it up in the air, muttering a _“show off”_ when Dan returns the round pizza dough to the counter and looks down at Phil with a smug expression. 

They bicker over pizza toppings and half of the pie gets a much heavier hand of mozzarella than the other, and Phil tries to not think about how entirely domestic he feels as he opens the pre-heated oven for Dan to slide their creation into. 

There’s something about it all that feels so much different to learning and cooking with Dan in the royal pasty kitchen. Because this isn’t the palace, this is _Dan’s home_. And it sure as hell feels like a home. A, quite honestly, alarming realization Phil has as Dan pours them drinks and asks if Phil wants to help him set up the table or if he would prefer to eat in front of the television. 

How can a place he’s spent all of thirty minutes in feel more like home than the place he’s spent the past thirty-some odd years? 

He instead focuses on Dan’s words, refusing to really let himself think about it. 

“I can break out the good china for Your Mages-”

“Stop it,” Phil laughs, shutting Dan up with more than his words, his palm pressed firmly to Dan’s mouth. It’s already too late as Phil catches the glint in Dan’s eyes, feeling the wet swipe against his hand before he can pull away. 

“Gross!” Phil backs away, squishing up his nose and wiping Dan’s spit on his apron. 

“You like it,” Dan teases. 

Phil just rolls his eyes and works on untying his apron. “To answer your question, I’d actually love to eat on the sofa if that’s okay with you.” 

Dan nods, pulling off his own apron. “Is trash television okay with you? I’ve been keeping up with _Riverdale_ lately,” he asks as he catches the apron Phil tosses at him and hangs them both up. 

If the universe would like to stop making this worse for him anytime soon, Phil would appreciate it. 

“That’s like… my favorite guilty pleasure show,” Phil says quietly, eyes a bit wide. 

Dan snorts. “God, it’s so bad isn’t it?” 

“It’s a train-wreck I can’t seem to look away from,” Phil agrees, stifling his laugh with a hand over his mouth. 

Dan gives him a weird look before picking up the two glasses on the counter and handing them to Phil. “You’re so full of surprises, Phil Lester,” he says quietly. Then, “You go get us set up and I’ll keep an eye on the pizza.”

With a nod, Phil follows Dan’s instructions — only turning back to flash Dan a knowing smile when Dan calls over to him again. 

“The remote is probably somewhere between the cushions, that’ll keep you busy for a while.” 

Phil sets up Netflix once he locates the remote and slowly starts to sink into Dan’s incredibly comfortable couch, remembering just how tired he is the second he’s off his feet. He blinks at the title screen and goes as far as pulling the plush faux fur throw off the back of the couch and onto his lap, truly making himself at home. 

Phil isn’t entirely sure if he was awake or asleep as he waited for Dan to join him, blinking heavily at the title screen on the television as Dan’s couch gets more and more comfortable by the minute. Eventually Dan does join him, setting down the large wooden cutting board on the coffee table — the pizza cut in perfectly triangular slices on it, surrounded by an alarmingly large number of little bowls of various colored dips. 

Phil doesn’t question Dan’s dips and Dan makes a passing comment about how it’s only suitable to eat like trash while watching a trash show, even if it’s the _Queen of fucking England_ on his sofa. Phil laughs so hard through his bite of pizza he almost starts to choke, and Dan’s hand on his back in response never seems to leave. 

Of course, Phil has seen this episode, so he mostly zones out. He makes passing jokes and laughs along at the truly, truly awful show through mouthfuls of pizza. And when the board in front of them is empty and their stomachs are full, Phil loses grip on whatever resolve he’s been trying to hold on to as his eyes get heavier and heavier. 

As he leans into Dan’s side, Dan’s shoulder shaking slightly as he laughs at whatever outlandish thing is happening on screen, Phil briefly wonders if Dan is running a fever with how warm he is. So warm, he eventually stops fighting the weight on his eyelids. 

***

Dreamland is taken away from Phil by a gentle shake at his shoulder. 

“Five more minutes,” Phil grumbles, barely coherent as he snuggles his face in closer to the soft, squishy warmth it’s tucked into. 

He feels a vibration against his face, hears a low hearty chuckle as he becomes more conscious. It’s then that he realizes where he is, what — or more accurately, whom — he is cuddled up against. His eyes are quite slow to blink open despite said realization, hell if he wants to savor this he can. Isn’t that a thing? The prince having whatever he pleases? 

Well, right now all Phil pleases is a few more blissful seconds of being pressed up against Dan’s side. Dan’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, a warm hand not pushing him away, but keeping him in place. 

“No more minutes, Phil,” Dan hums, flexing his fingers to squeeze Phil again. Phil merely groans in protest. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, but with how tired he feels it cannot have been long. 

“Come on,” Dan continues, attempting to push Phil up, but not accomplishing much of anything as he seemingly doesn’t want to release his hold around Phil’s shoulders. “I have to bring you home.” Dan chuckles at the immediate whine of protest leaves Phil’s unfiltered throat. 

“Unless...you want to stay,” he adds after a beat. Those four words proving to be the only ones that make Phil finally blink his eyes open. 

He twists in Dan’s arms, squinting as his face comes into focus — Phil probably looking properly ridiculous with the way the frames of his glasses are both crooked and sliding down the bridge of his nose. 

Dan’s smile matches his eyes and Phil will not dare call it fond. Because it just can’t be fond. He huffs a small laugh that shakes Phil a bit and moves a hand to fix Phil’s glasses. 

Phil mumbles a small thanks. Then, “I can stay?” 

Dan’s smile tugs wider, a dimple poking into the side of his cheek. 

“You can stay,” he says with a nod. “Let’s get you to an actual bed though, okay?” 

Phil starts to protest, but Dan shuts him right up with a much less gentle shove than the tone of his voice. 

“If I’m going to be excommunicated for stealing a prince I do not want to have ‘ _gave him permanent back issues_ ’ on my list of damages.” 

“Fair,” Phil mumbles, finally letting Dan manhandle his tired limbs off of the sofa. 

Phil lets Dan steer him down the hall, a hand on each shoulder and Dan’s own tired head resting by his chin over his left hand. Dan procures a new toothbrush for Phil to use, confessing his “ _almost inappropriate”_ obsession for dental hygiene, and they bump elbows as they both stand in front of the bathroom mirror. 

And it’s not just because Dan is left handed and standing on Phil’s right, there’s more than enough room in the bathroom for either of them to take a step away, but for some reason they both choose to lean in instead. 

Phil is too tired to stop himself, too tired to dissect what it means that it’s not just him. He’s also too tired to inquire what exactly being inappropriately into dental hygiene entails. 

Maybe that’s for the best. 

Once foamy mouths have been rinsed out, Dan steers Phil to his room. Overtired giggles fill the hall, then the dark room that Dan guides Phil through — neither of them really knowing what they’re laughing about. 

Dan all but tucks Phil in, pulling the right hand corner of his duvet over and flipping it back up once Phil lies down. Phil’s eyes barely last three seconds after his head hits the soft pillow, merely feeling his glasses being plucked off his face and barely catching the soft sound they make as they’re placed on the side table. 

Though his eyes are closed, Phil doesn’t drift off immediately, waiting with the duvet tucked up to his chin for the feeling of another body plopping down into the bed. But it isn’t quick to come. 

Phil cracks open an eye, not accomplishing much of anything given how dark the room is, but he manages to make out the figure leaning over the other side of the bed, picking up the other pillow. 

Phil pouts, a huff daring to leave his tired, unfiltered body. 

“What?” Dan asks, Phil can almost hear the amused grin in his tone. 

Phil simply whines softly in the back of his throat. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Dan says after a moment, his voice sounding much less teasing. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” 

Phil nods his head, less seen than heard as the back of his head rubs against the jersey cotton of Dan’s pillowcase. Dan chuckles softly and Phil closes his eyes just as he hears the quiet thump of the pillow in Dan’s hand being tossed back onto the bed. 

As Dan gets into bed, Phil does not budge over, nor does Dan keep himself shoved over to the edge of his own side of the bed. They don’t say much of anything, the discussion isn’t verbal as the two of them reach out for the other at the same time. 

With an arm wrapped around Dan’s middle and the pillow under his head replaced by Dan’s chest, Phil instantly starts to drift again. A deep, content sigh leaves his body feeling weightless, and he’s barely lucid enough to register the hand that runs through his quiff or the soft kiss on his forehead that follows it. 

It could be a dream, it could be reality. Phil is too far gone to make the distinction, even though it’s quite clear. 

The clearest that anything has ever been. 

***

When Phil wakes again, it isn’t to his alarm or someone shaking him awake. By the way he instinctively squints at the stream of sunlight attempting to bore it’s way into his eye, he guesses his body clock allowed him to sleep in past his routine time before the sun rises. He doesn’t know what time it is exactly, though he knows it’s the longest he’s slept in in months. With how rested he feels, he’s suddenly thankful he has the weekend free after such a busy week. 

A small groan of protest leaves his throat as he keeps his eyes shut tight, only registering his surroundings as he goes to stretch and that soft warmth he’s wrapped around is indeed not a heated blanket or whatever his waking brain initially thought it was. 

Phil isn’t in his bed at all. He’s not hugging his spare pillow, he’s hugging Dan. The tickle at his nose is actually the short, soft hair at the back of Dan’s neck. The light streaming into his eye that woke him is actually from the small crack in Dan’s blackout curtains. 

It spikes his heart rate, but not by much in his sleepy state, and he slowly blinks his eyes open to see, well, the back of Dan’s head. 

Phil reckons he should be more panicked, but he’s just far too comfortable — too content — to care. Any and all thoughts about how inappropriate it is or how much shit he’s going to be in for disappearing without any notice are squashed before they even come to fruition. No other thoughts are allowed. Phil’s head is filled only with how cozy he feels and how warm Dan’s back is pressed against his chest. How _warm_ is the only word he can conjure to describe the way Dan’s hair product — or shampoo or whatever it is — smells as he lets himself nuzzle into him. 

He should get up, he knows he should. But with Dan still gently breathing — soft snores that shouldn’t be as cute as they are filling the room — and a hand holding Phil’s arm firmly in place, he decides it would be a crime to pull himself away. 

So he pulls Dan closer and lets himself enjoy it for a little bit more. 

Phil isn’t sure if it’s been five minutes or an hour, but despite his complete unwillingness to pull himself away, his bladder has other plans. It’s a slow, careful process, wiggling his way out from around Dan, gently pulling his arm from Dan’s grasp, but he gets there eventually. He taps his hand around the side table and manages to locate his glasses, sliding them on as he sits on the edge of the bed, seeing clearly for the first time since waking up. 

It would be nice if he was thinking clearly as well, because he definitely isn’t. Not at all. 

That clouded mind of nothing but _Dan, Dan, need to pee, Dan_ is at fault for the way he doesn’t even think twice as he gets up. Softly padding around the bed and leaning over when he turns to look back at Dan. He’s shifted around since Phil untangled himself from him, his curly hair thoroughly mused and an arm reaching out towards the warm, empty space in the bed Phil left. 

It cracks Phil’s heart into a few pieces, then throws those pieces over the fire to smelt. So he doesn’t think as he leans over, a touch so soft it’s barely there as he pushes Dan’s curls up off his forehead, an even softer kiss there follows. 

It just felt like the right thing to do, and Phil feels that to be true as he gives the sleeping Dan one last glance before stepping out of the room and making his way down the hall. 

He’s beyond fucked at this point. Waking up next to Dan feels so _normal._ It shouldn’t, but it does. And it only solidifies the foolish feeling in Phil’s heart. The one he thinks- _knows_ is love. 

The affection in his heart is what fuels him to make his way into Dan’s kitchen after his stop in the bathroom. Determination like he’s never felt before takes over — curiously looking at the fancy silver coffee machine on Dan’s counter, opening about four cabinets before locating the coffee, another two before finding Dan’s mugs. 

He’s going to make Dan breakfast, goddamnit. 

Even if he’s never made a cup of coffee that wasn’t instant in his entire life. 

***

Phil is, indeed, more than a bit in over his head. Every cabinet in Dan’s kitchen is open. The island in the middle of the kitchen is now filled with various supplies he _thinks_ could _maybe_ be put into pancakes, but he just isn’t quite sure. It definitely doesn’t help that his phone he found left abandoned on Dan’s couch is now dead, and he can’t seem to locate a charger without getting too snoopy. 

It’s not like Googling how to make pancakes would help, Phil sighs as he leans on his elbows against the counter, his head in his hands. He’s absolutely helpless when it comes to this stuff. Even with all of Dan’s teaching and lessons, Phil is still so aware of how different their lives really are. 

At least he managed the coffee, the nutty smell now filling the kitchen with the full pot under the machine. Phil picked out two mugs and set them down in front of it, staring at them blankly as he musters up the courage to turn back around and survey the items he’s picked out to make pancakes. 

He’s determined. He can do this. He-

“Can I help you?” 

The deep, groggy voice makes Phil jump. He spins around with his hand on his heart to, of course, see Dan smiling at him from the other side of the island. His hair is still an absolute mess and one side of his face is a bit red and creased from his pillow, and Phil thinks he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. 

With his hand to his chest, Phil tries, and fails, to regulate his breathing. It’s not entirely from the fright. 

“Sorry,” Dan laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he steps further into the kitchen. 

“I was uh,” Phil attempts to reel in his thoughts. He looks at the coffee, then to the small disaster on the island, and hangs his head. “I was trying to make you breakfast, but I only got as far as coffee,” he says to his socked feet. “My phone died and I don’t know how to make pancakes,” he looks back up at Dan with an involuntary pout on his lips. He can’t help but feel like he’s failed. 

Dan looks thoughtful, his eyes going softer as he looks at Phil. It doesn’t look at all like disappointment, even though that’s all Phil can feel. 

‘Okay,” Dan says, breaking the silence. “Alright, give me a second. I’m still not fully awake,” he huffs out a laugh, a yawn interrupting him proving his point. “I didn’t know where you were,” he adds, mumbling the words quickly before turning to head out of the kitchen. 

Then, “Let me go pee and brush my teeth. I’ll get you a plug, then we can make pancakes,” louder, over his shoulder before disappearing back down the hall. 

***

Pancakes are, surprisingly, easy to make. Dan even knows how to make them American style, thick and fluffy and shockingly easy to flip in the pan. And not to mention, Phil’s absolute favorite. 

He felt a bit bad at first, frowning when Dan reappeared, telling him that he really wanted to make them all by himself for Dan. Since Dan is always making coffee, baked goods, or breakfast for Phil. 

Dan’s eyes went soft, and he reached out to push at the corner of Phil’s mouth until he couldn’t help but smile and giggle with him. 

“ _It’s what I love to do, and we can do it together,”_ Dan had said softly, his hand still at the side of Phil’s face. Phil couldn’t help but lean into it. _“I love that too.”_

_“You do?”_

_“Absofuckinglutely, I do. Now can you please close all of my cabinets so I can have a moment of peace before teaching you my world famous pancake recipe?”_

Their mountain of pancakes are set out on Dan’s little dining table. Phil asks how Dan takes his coffee and brings them each over a cup, placing them down next to the glasses of juice Dan squeezed fresh — because apparently he’s that kind of person. Phil kind of loves it. He loves everything about it. 

It’s easy to forget about the rest of the world, sitting across from Dan like this — his phone plugged in, but remaining turned off, forgotten in the kitchen. In the safety of a late morning hours-long breakfast, Phil can believe they’re the only people that exist. 

He loves being Dan and Phil, not just a prince and the baker that works for him. 

He loves sitting across from Dan. He loves the way Dan’s bare foot finds Phil’s leg almost instantly, pressing his cold toes against the exposed bit of Phil’s calf from where his pajamas have ridden up. He loves how Dan doesn’t let up as he shrieks. And he loves that he’s seemingly allowed to do it right back, their legs entwined beneath the table as they turn the big mountain of pancakes into two smaller hills on their own plates. 

He loves the way Dan buys himself fresh flowers, smiling meekly when Phil asks about them. Dan just thinks they’re pretty. Phil just thinks he couldn’t be more in love. 

He loves the way Dan tries so incredibly hard to not make a face as he takes his first sip of coffee. Because Phil’s already had a sip of his and he is well aware that it’s quite shit. He has no idea what he’s done wrong. He just knows he’s done wrong. 

“It’s-” 

“It’s not that bad,” Dan speaks over him, the lie a complete tell on his face. Phil shoots him a look, and they both fail at any attempts to hold laughter in — Dan spluttering into the mug still held up to his lips. 

“It’s horrible,” Phil wheezes. 

Dan snorts, the gross coffee sloshing out past the rim a bit as he sets it down on the table. “Literally so bad, what the _hell_ did you do to it?” 

Phil tries to frown, to pout, but it’s impossible to counteract the smile on his face as tremors of laughter still rack through both of their bodies. He feels a bit hysterical, so sad and pathetic that it can’t be anything other than funny. 

“I don’t know!” Phil’s voice is muffled by his hands over his face, leaning back in his chair, in attempts to hide his shame. Because when the humor dies down, all he can really feel is shame. 

A bit of disappointment as well, in himself and his inability to do the most normal, mundane human things. 

Dan must sense his pout even through his hands over his face, because his laughter dies down and is replaced with a small hum. 

“You know, I wasn’t really in the coffee mood anyway,” Dan says, his voice soft, gentle. Phil peeks through his fingers to see the same reflected on his face. It does something to his heart, makes it flip over a few times even though he still feels disappointed in himself. 

Phil sighs, deep and long, and drops his hands from his face to fiddle with his fingers on the tabletop. They’re something to look at that isn’t Dan’s face. Because for some reason, right now, he can’t look into those big, round brown eyes. 

“I know nothing about any of this,” he says in a small voice. 

“What do you mean?” Dan matches Phil’s quiet tone, as if a hush has fallen over the flat in the absence of their shared laughter. 

“I don’t know,” Phil sighs. He does know though. He just- this isn’t something he ever talks about with other people. Besides the occasional offhand jokes with Dan, it isn’t appropriate to whinge about his life, his feelings, like this. 

“Sometimes it makes me feel really weird realizing everything is done for me, you know? I can’t even make you a cup of coffee, something you do for me nearly every day,” Phil frowns, picking at the corner of his thumb instead of meeting Dan’s gaze. “There’s so little that I actually do for myself when I think about it,” he lets out a sardonic huff of a laugh.

“I often question if I’m even a real person and not just…” Phil sighs. “A figure that’s placed in meetings, someone who can be told to smile at the right times, say the things someone else wants me to say. It’s like my only purpose is to be a person to sign things and reciprocate handshakes that hold no real value.” 

There’s a beat of silence after Phil stops talking, nothing but his own now shaking — with anger or sadness or relief, Phil doesn’t even know — breath and a soft sigh from the man across from him. Phil still doesn’t look up, he’s too focused on fighting back the wetness behind his eyes — also unsure if they’re from relief or upset. 

All he knows is that they’ll most likely come to the surface if he looks up at Dan, so he doesn’t. Crying over nothing like a baby isn’t a very princely thing to do. It’s ironic considering how un-princely he’s been acting lately otherwise, as if holding onto this one last thing makes up for everything else. 

So he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t say anything else and neither does Dan, a charged silence between the little round table as Phil picks at a hangnail that isn’t even there. 

Then, the sound of the metal legs of a chair against hardwood. A big, warm — always _so_ warm — hand batting away one of Phil’s so it can squeeze around the other. It’s a firm, but gentle pressure, not once letting up until Phil feels the tension that’s taken over his body melt away. 

It would be very _Phil_ to get this upset over a fucked up cup of coffee, but instead of getting worked up about it all over again, he focuses on the soft back and forth of Dan’s thumb against his skin. 

And it’s not really about coffee, is it? 

“Hey,” Dan says. 

Phil hums in response, eyes following that back and forth motion. 

But then it stops. 

“Look at me.” 

Phil follows the instruction, a combination of losing his resolve and his underlying suspicion that he would never be able to say no to Dan. 

Dan’s gaze is wide open. Phil feels so seen, so perceived, he almost immediately looks back down. But for some reason he can’t shy away from it. It’s like he-

Phil feels a harsh pinch at the back of his hand. 

“Ow!” he flinches. He goes to rub at the spot with his other hand, but Dan’s thumb is already there, a step ahead of him. 

“See?” 

Phil looks back up to Dan raising a brow at him. Phil narrows his eyes. 

“You’re definitely real,” Dan explains, a dimple showing up even with his small frown. At this point, Phil’s heart doesn’t know how to stay still in his chest. 

“And hey,” Dan squeezes at Phil’s hand again, “you shouldn’t beat yourself up about stuff like that. At least, I hope you know that I don’t give a shit if your coffee tastes like Starbucks or swamp water.” 

They both snort at that, it really does taste like swamp water. 

“You know,” Dan continues, “it’s not like us- ugh, I don’t know what word to use that isn’t gross. But like, it’s not like us _normal_ people- yeah that sounds gross, you know what I mean though.” 

Phil nods his head. He does. He’s used to it — no less put out than Dan with his furrowed brow and bitten lip, but he’s learned to school his reactions to words like that. 

Phil watches as Dan releases his bottom lip, pink pouting back into place. 

“It’s not like we’re all born magically knowing how to do all this shit,” Dan says with a wave of his free hand, the one not entwined with Phil’s. “Did I ever tell you about how I went to university for law before culinary school?” 

That surprises Phil, he shakes his head with wide, interested eyes. 

“Yeah, that was short-lived,” Dan chuckles. “Kind of wished I learned to stick up for myself and pursue my passions _before_ wasting a year failing law school, but c’est la vie.” Dan shakes his head, scrunching up his nose in that cute way he does. 

“That’s not my point though,” Dan continues. “My point is if you’re never given the opportunity, never encouraged or allowed, there’s no way you could instantly be great at seemingly _normal_ things. The first meal I made myself at university set off the entire floor’s fire alarms. I was literally a full _adult_ and I didn’t know you needed to put water in the pot to make pasta.” 

Phil’s eyes go wide, but they narrow just as quickly. “You’re just making that up to make me feel better.” 

Dan snorts. “Trust me, I’m not. I’d make up a far less embarrassing lie if I was,” he says. “And I wouldn’t, by the way.” He squeezes Phil’s hand. “I don’t think I could lie to you.” 

The look Dan gives Phil suddenly feels like _too much._ It’s far too open, far too telling of things left unsaid over the past few months. Things that Phil can’t quite convince himself are only in his own head any longer. He really should look away. 

But he doesn’t. 

“Also,” Dan breaks the quiet that’s fallen over them. “I don’t tell you this enough, maybe because I’m a little jealous,” he laughs, scrunchy nose and all, “but you’re a quick learner.”

Dan gestures to the plate in front of him, “Look at what you just did! These are amazing and all I did was tell you the ingredients and measurements. Better than I was when I first started culinary school, despite having little old me as your teacher instead of a Michelin star chef. You’re defying all of the odds.” 

Phil frowns. “It’s _because_ of you.” 

Dan’s face softens. “Don’t- you can’t just say that.” 

“Well, I did.” This time, Phil squeezes Dan’s hand, holding it as tight as the grip he feels on his own heart. And Dan’s the one to look away, dropping their gaze to focus on the table. 

“Hey,” Dan says, to the table. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Anything,” Phil replies. It doesn’t even strike him as odd at how easily it’s said, how he’s quite sure he’d tell Dan any and everything if he so much as asked. 

Royally fucked, is what he said he was. And he still is, apparently. Entirely, completely, royally fucked for the beautiful pastry chef sat across from him. 

“Did you really think I didn’t know when the Queen’s birthday was?” Dan looks up as he asks, catching Phil off guard with the glint in his eye that matches the smirk on his lips. 

“I-” Phil starts, stumbles, then closes his mouth. Unsure of what to say to that, he bites his lip and looks at Dan with pleading eyes. Dan’s smile only grows wider. Phil really doesn’t want to have to say it, because saying it would make it real. 

Not like it wasn’t real already. Phil is pretty sure he’s never felt more real than right here in Dan’s humble flat. Waking up with Dan in his arms, Dan’s hand on the small of his back as Phil jumped every time he flipped a pancake in the pan, Dan’s legs still tangled with his under the table. It’s very real. 

Phil just doesn’t want to come to terms with it, because everything will become so much more fragile once it leaves the safety of his own head. 

But Dan’s flat feels nothing but safe. Dan is safe. And Phil should know by now that he doesn’t always get what he wants. 

Right now, he wants Dan. But there are about a million and one reasons why he can’t, why he shouldn’t. 

Instead of answering Dan’s question — honestly he doesn’t think he has to, Dan knows the answer — Phil looks down at their hands, pulling them apart so he can press his palm to Dan’s. Dan immediately presses back, sliding his hand up against Phil’s to fold the tips of his fingers over Phil’s. 

Phil smiles, the twinge of sadness in it carries into his voice. “I wish I could stay here forever. I feel real here.” Phil slides his fingers between Dan’s, holding on tight. 

“What’s stopping you? I won’t,” Dan says. His voice is so sure and confident, it’s like a hammer taping a small crack into Phil’s heart. 

Phil lets out a sarcastic huff of a laugh, finally looking up from their hands to give Dan a similar look. 

Dan frowns, but then his face softens into something incredibly… neutral. Phil tries to see what’s behind his eyes, but they’re unreadable. 

“I’m leaving,” Dan says. 

“What?” Panic spikes in Phil’s chest as he processes Dan’s words. “Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t me-”

“Phil,” Dan stops the words on Phil’s tongue. He holds firm to Phil’s hand, even as Phil’s grip loosens on instinct. 

Phil is frowning, but Dan is smiling. It’s big, a bit lopsided, and unabashedly fond. Phil has never been more confused. 

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’m putting in my notice soon. On Monday, actually.”

Phil’s brows tug together as rusty gears begin to turn in his brain. 

Dan huffs out a laugh, clearly amused by whatever expression is on Phil’s face. “This was never a forever job, Phil. Though pâtissier at the royal palace is the first title of mine my parents actually seem proud to say, it’s not my dream.” 

“Where are you going?” Phil asks in a small voice. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Dan laughs as Phil cocks his head, just trying to make sense of what Dan is saying. It’s like his brain is actively working against his heart to understand what Dan is getting at. 

“A friend from culinary school just got the loan approved for her own restaurant. She asked me to be her partner, build it from the ground up,” Dan explains with a wide smile, nothing but pride in his voice. “That’s a fucking dream.” 

“It’s twenty minutes away, closer to your place than mine I’d reckon,” he adds with a wink before Phil can reply. 

As he blinks at Dan, Phil realizes his mouth has dropped open in a small ‘o’. He shuts it while Dan simply smirks at him from across the table. 

“Dan, I’m so happy for you!” Phil squeezes at Dan’s hand, Dan squeezes back. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asks, it dawning on him mid-question how presumptuous it is to think they’re close enough for that, but he can’t very well take it back. 

Dan doesn’t look offended or put out though, his smile never dropping. 

He shrugs, “I didn’t want to jinx anything before it was a sure thing. Sometimes I feel like if I say something I’m working towards aloud, it’ll curse it.” 

Phil laughs. “So you _are_ superstitious,” he teases with a smug grin. 

“Absolutely not!” 

Phil narrows his eyes, his lopsided smile going wider as he tilts his chin towards Dan. 

“Get that look off your face,” Dan laughs. “I mean like, I put enough pressure on myself as it is. If I’m going to fail at something, I don’t want to be upset about letting other people down if I hyped it up like an idiot.” 

“You’d never let me down. I’m so proud of you, and I’d still be proud of you if you were telling me that it didn’t work out,” Phil squeezes Dan’s hand. “Fuck, I’m so proud of you.” 

Dan blinks. If Phil were closer, if he wasn’t looking through the frames of his glasses that were a bit smeared with flour from their pancakes, he’d say Dan’s eyes look a bit damp. 

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get over the prince saying fuck,” Dan says incredulously, taking Phil away from his train of thought. 

Phil sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. 

“I’ll let that one slide because you’re incredibly cute right now.” 

The look on Dan’s face he receives in response is worth every single risk he’s taking in saying it. 

Dan is worth every single one. And more. 

***

Phil has been in a bit of a haze ever since that morning — or afternoon really, it was more of a three hour long breakfast kind of deal — that Dan dropped him back off at the palace. It was surprising how easily Dan was able to slip in, nothing more than a badge pressed to a censor at a side entrance — not the whole _parade_ it becomes whenever Phil goes in and out. It was even more surprising when Phil was able to slip back to his wing, nothing more than a question as to why he didn’t join his brother for lunch. 

Unfortunately, not everything can be that easy with Phil’s busy schedule and so many eyes on practically his every move. Though everything has changed, his day to day remains surprisingly normal. There’s some added thrill here and there, Dan and Phil sneaking around to catch moments together beyond their daily mornings in the pastry kitchen, but there aren’t any more unauthorized exits of the palace by Phil. 

Which is… disappointing and relieving all at once. 

Disappointing because spending time with Dan is kind of the only thing Phil ever wants to do. And even though they’ve been seeing more of each other than ever, he doesn’t like how he always has to be watching over his shoulder. 

He doesn’t like lacking that freedom he felt in Dan’s flat. In the passenger seat of Dan’s car. With an old black baseball cap Dan procured from his boot pulled over his head as they made a pit stop to the gutted storefront that Dan showed Phil with pride, absolutely beaming on the pavement in the middle of the busy city street. 

Relieving because it eases the temptation, never feeling truly alone. He almost pulled Dan close and kissed that smile on his face right there in front of Dan’s future restaurant, he wanted to so badly. And he wants to, just as badly, every single moment he spends with Dan. But with all eyes on him, he knows he shouldn’t. He knows he can’t, even though Dan had put in his two weeks that following Monday just as he said he would. 

Phil knows he has to be careful, calculated. Not wanting to fuck this up is, like, the only thing he feels more strongly than the urge to kiss and be kissed by those chapped, pink, sugary-sweet lips. 

It doesn’t quite stop him from lingering as he wipes royal blue icing off the corner of those lips though. It doesn’t stop him from sticking his thumb in his own mouth as they both refuse to drop their gaze. It doesn’t stop mysteriously hand-shaped flour prints from appearing on the back of Phil’s trousers. And it definitely doesn’t stop the acknowledgement between the two of them — knowing that they’re both in this, they both want this, and the second they can they’re both ready to hold on with no intentions of letting go. 

The past two weeks have been a blur of meetings and appearances. Early mornings in the pastry kitchen and stolen moments in hidden alcoves of the winding mazes of the palace halls. Kneading dough in the form of freshly made bread and Phil’s finger in the indents in Dan’s cheeks when he smiles — or when he frowns. But it’s mostly smiles. Phil as well, the Prince finally embracing where his smile naturally goes, not hiding it behind a hand or schooling it into something more regal. 

Because Dan tells him that that real smile is cute. And Phil, well Phil quickly learns he’s not very good at saying no to Dan. 

There’s a few buzzes at Phil’s thigh and he tunes out of whatever his aide is debriefing him on as they pull back through the palace gates, finally deeming it acceptable to pull his phone out of his trouser pockets. He ignores whatever glare is thrown his way and unlocks his phone. 

**Dan:** _hi_

 **Dan:** _did you know it’s my last day_

 **Dan:** _huh huh_

Phil snorts at the row of wonky faced emojis that Dan sent. 

**Dan:** _just did the last sweep of my aprons and spatulas_

 **Dan:** _cars all packed up_

Phil smiles wider. So wide his jaw starts to ache as he reads the grey text bubbles a few more times over. 

**Phil:** _Just got home. I’ll be passing the gardens in 15._

The three dots pop up immediately. 

**Dan:** _aye aye captain_

Phil sends off a row of parrot emojis before pocketing his phone again. He turns back to his aide with a well-practiced apologetic look in his eyes.

***

The rose garden is one of Phil’s favorite places. It’s one of the few places on the property in which the riches are not measured in gold. It’s fresh and alive, especially so during this time of year with the rejuvenation from spring and the warming weather approaching, but not quite at its peak. 

All the colors he could ever imagine, blooming in nature. They climb up trellises and the side of the palace wall, they fill every bush and little nook — only held back from overtaking the stone path and a few ornate benches by the skillful eyes of the royal gardeners. 

In the golden wash of sunlight just before the sun sets, it’s a sight to behold. 

Though the roses aren’t what Phil has his eyes on as a large, warm hand pops out from behind the column he’s walking past, gripping at his suit jacket. 

Dan’s eyes have that same golden wash from the sun, they’re wide and unguarded and as beautiful as Phil has always thought they are. His warm curls are as mussed as any would be after a day of floured hands running through them, and the waning sunlight only highlights the new freckles that seem to pop up on his cheeks every other day. The same freckles that also dot his arms, visible with the sleeves of his dark work shirt rolled up at the elbows. 

Phil follows the little dots, up the line of his arm and to the bit of collarbone that peeks out through the top buttons he’s undone. 

Dan looks casual and free in a way Phil doesn’t often see him in such a public space. The exact opposite from Phil in every way besides the weight that immediately lifts off his chest with Dan’s hand on his bicep — Phil not wanting to take a second longer to stop by his wing to change out of his stuffy, royal garb. 

“You didn’t have to hide,” Phil chuckles as Dan lets go of his arm with a squeeze. 

Dan shrugs, a meek smile on his lips. 

“Force of habit,” he says casually as they step down the stone steps into the garden, walking along the path side by side. 

Phil follows the path, but his eyes aren’t held forward. He watches as Dan breathes in deeply, his chest rising and falling as he reaches out to brush the tips of his fingers against soft pink petals. Their shoulders bump as Phil leans in to the sweet smell as well, both the fresh roses and the lingering warmth of freshly baked bread that clings to Dan’s clothes. 

“It’s not going to be easy,” Phil says softly, breaking the quiet between them, voice joining the rustle of bushes in the breeze and the low hum of the fountain further up ahead. 

“I know,” Dan hums. 

“It probably won’t be like… a normal relationship by any of your means.” 

Dan huffs, the bump of their shoulders intentional this time as he nudges into Phil’s side. “I’ve never wanted normal. Only you.” 

The warmth high on Phil’s cheeks is definitely not from the sun, a color spreading there that rivals the flowers around them. Their knuckles brush where their hands swing between them and Phil feels it in his chest as sharply as the words Dan just spoke. 

“I wish I could hold your hand,” Dan hums before Phil can connect his brain to his heart to form words. 

“You can, if you want,” Phil replies. He’s never been more sure, he’s never wanted something more. 

“I can?” Dan turns his head to look at Phil with searching eyes. Phil allows him to read whatever he sees there. Want, need, affection, love. 

Phil turns his palm and slides his fingers between Dan’s. Dan immediately grabs back, and they continue on the stone path like that. Hand in hand, shoulders pressed together, taking in the garden, but mostly each other. 

Phil absentmindedly rubs his thumb over Dan’s soft skin as they loop around the marble fountain. 

“I wish I could kiss you,” Dan says. 

Phil huffs out a small laugh, stopping them by the fountain before they continue back down the path they just came from. 

“Oh, are you just trying to push your luck now?” Phil quirks a brow, grabbing Dan’s other hand as he turns to face him. 

Dan’s smile is cheeky, his eyes mischievous. Even with the lowering sun taking the light from the sky, Phil can see the blushing red along his jaw, a similar color on his cheeks. 

Phil is so in love. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Dan quips back, entirely full of shit with every tell on his face laid bare for Phil to read, “Your Highn-”

The title dies in Dan’s throat with a muffled “ _mmph,”_ Phil darting forward to kiss him. It’s more than what Phil had imagined, messy and uncoordinated and a bit silly. But Dan is quick to respond, chuckling against Phil’s mouth before stepping forward to press in closer. The only words Phil’s brain provides as their lips work together are _soft_ and _warm_ and _Dan_. 

Phil thinks only one of them matters, repeating it like a mantra in his head as he sighs into the kiss. He feels Dan’s mouth start to pull up into a smile before he pulls away. And he doesn’t go far, leaning his forehead against Phil’s as they both open their eyes. 

Phil lifts his chin, the tiniest movement, nuzzling his nose against Dan’s. 

Dan hums — a happy, content sound. Phil feels it too. 

“I’ve always wanted to be a princess,” Dan whispers between their shared breath. 

Phil rolls his eyes. 

“Shut the fuck up,” is what he tells Dan. Though he does it himself before Dan has the chance. 


End file.
